Chapter Text
“Ah! Faster!” he moaned, shaky hands gripping the bedsheets.
Geto leaned in, nuzzling the sweaty neck of his lover. He sped up his thrusts, as he’d been instructed, pleaded with, desperately demanded of, and the way the heat sucked his cock in was pure heaven.
“Fuck…” Geto cursed, sinking his teeth into the milky skin, feeling the pulse thrum under his lips.
There was a sob, a hug, trembling hands around his neck, pulling him closer.
“Geto, d-don’t hold back,” his lover murmured, digging his heels into the small of Geto’s back and forcing him deeper. The wet, hot pressure around his length, all the way to the hilt, drove Geto insane.
“Stop,” he whispered. A warning. Fisting his hands, he bit into the neck harder, hard enough to break skin with his canines. “I’ll hurt you.”
His lover clenched around him—what a silly, lovely thing—and kissed Geto’s temple.
“You won’t,” he assured, rocking his hips forward to meet the next thrust with his own torturous show of desire.
Like a vixen, he arched his body and made the sweetest sounds. They blended with the lewd squelching of their bodies, the slap of skin on skin, all generously laced with the salty smell of cum and the metallic taste of blood.
And in the midst of it all, heart pounding and throat sore with want, Geto felt himself a bit more alive.
He couldn’t hold back anymore; his cock was twitching, the tips of his fingers tingled with anticipation. How wonderful it would be—to forgo all caution and ram into that hole with all his might, so deep he would feel himself bulging through the belly, so deep those beautiful blue eyes would roll back and tears would stream down his cheeks as he hiccuped for breath.
“I warned you.” Geto finally gave up.
Prying himself away from the warmth of his lover's neck, Geto straightened up. With a shift, his cock pushed upward, making the body under him tremble as the pressure on the prostate changed.
“Hurry.” The blue eyes pleaded, lips puffy and glistening with spit as he bit into the lower one, uselessly trying to hide a whimper.
Grabbing those slim, long legs under the knees, Geto threw one over his shoulder and looked down at that pretty face begging him for more.
How wrong.
Geto was dying to have his lover beg for mercy, not for more. To have him cry, scream. Skin full of purple flowers and red marks, lips bitten bloody, thighs bruised and insides twitching around his cock.
And when they finally asked him to stop, yelled “no more”—as they all did, despite cockily promising to handle him—then he would murder a little part of himself and stop.
But this one? This one smiled up at him, hungry and even a bit desperately deranged, blood smeared on his shoulder, eyes burning bright. He clenched around Geto and dug his nails into his sides—challenging him, provoking him.
Eager to find out how this doll would break, Geto grinned back.
With the new angle, he pulled out to the tip, and—
⋆｡°✩JUST 30 SPECIAL SMUT COINS TO CONTINUE READING!⋆｡°✩
“AAAARGH!”
Satoru throws his phone to the other end of the room, eyes shut tight. With that fucking pop-up, he also clutches his dick too hard, and now it hurts like a bitch.
After a few lacklustre pumps, Satoru has to admit defeat—the self-pleasuring session is a complete failure. How did he forget to check the free status on that damn webnovel? How many times has he suffered through this fucking pop-up color-blast fate by now?
Four.
He remembers each one dearly—experiences quite literally burned into his retinas.
The first time, it was a cute vampire alpha x werewolf omega story; he’d almost bruised his prostate with a dildo from sheer rage.
The second was a mafia boss x indebted idiot type of cheap smut—terribly written, but the boss had a sexy aura even through the typos. Satoru bit his tongue so hard it bled and he couldn’t talk normally for a week. How that was paywalled is beyond his understanding.
The third fiasco happened not so long ago—a well-written historical fantasy with great political schemes. He honestly read that one for the plot this time around. He didn’t even plan to jerk off; the side ship just had a delicious dynamic, and they finally got some action. And—bam. Sixty smut coins. Satoru wasn’t even mad, just infinitely sad his spendings were monitored and he could never, ever let this merchant show up on his bank statements. The hard-on withered from misery.
And now marks the fourth one. Though the physical damage could be overlooked, the emotional turmoil is too great.
Hugging his knees, Satoru looks at the cracked screen of his phone lying on the other side of the room. Buried in a thick rug, its faint light switches from red to blue as that damn pop-up keeps blinking.
This time around, it isn’t the plot or the sexy vibes of the mafia boss. It’s just… Suguru Geto. The protagonist. He is written as if all of Satoru’s deepest desires and traumas were downloaded into an AI simulator and generated to check each of his boxes.
That’s it.
Truthfully, Geto is just another protagonist of a basic power fantasy story with harem vibes—or more like a smut chapter is sprinkled between arcs every time the author notices a drop in readership. But he is the most perfect man Satoru has ever read about.
And the harem vibes don’t hurt the story at all.
To cater to him—Satoru, specifically, probably—the majority of the lovers in the story don’t even have names: faceless beauties Geto beds for this or that reason. The sex is so plot-irrelevant but money-grabbing that each smut chapter has two versions: gay sex and straight sex. Satoru prefers the gay ones. For no specific reason, obviously.
And, alas, on the 143rd chapter, the feast ends.
Morose and losing the will to live, Satoru stands up and goes to pick up the phone. His eyes already hurt, so no TV—but with those new prescription drops, the phone screen doesn’t bleed his retinas dry as of late, which means he can indulge in some more low-brightness, dark-mode reading.
A house alarm flashes at the top of the screen, which Satoru swipes away, unbothered. His sicko family tree all but bulletproofed this apartment, so the majority of notifications are a bit too paranoid. And thus, ignored.
Like: “Attention! The balcony window sensor registered an unusual pressure. Kindly look over the video cameras.”
Satoru never checks the cameras; even their presence grates on his sanity.
Jumping back on the bed, he scrolls up to the free chapters of The Venerable One Has Found His Way.
Smiling as his eyes land on the simple cover—dull and colorless and perfect for his shit of a sight—he opens the prologue, ready for a re-read.
Another house alert.
How annoying.
Satoru swipes it without much thought and slides his free hand over the covers in search of his earphones, gaze already glued to the first paragraphs.
Another alert.
Before he can plug them in, he hears a noise. A slick, metallic clink. Satoru recognizes it instantly.
Looking over his shoulder, he has just a moment to realize:
“Well, fuck.”
And then there is a blast—hot, bright, painful, quick.
And then, fucking finally, there is nothing.
“Hey.” A soothing voice whispers quietly in Satoru’s ear. A light slap on his cheek follows—tentative, as if afraid to hurt him.
Since when are paramedics this nice?
Cracking one eye open, Satoru tries to observe the situation.
Unfortunately, he survived; that much is obvious. He feels his limbs, and he thinks therefore he is, and gods…
Alive and kicking.
Yay.
How pathetic was that burglar? Like, really? How did the guy miss a fucking headshot? From that distance? On the off chance that it’s a hired gun, Satoru is going to investigate just to laugh.
But, well, since it’s already like this, hopefully he doesn’t get some ugly-ass scar on the side. That would suck. On top of everything.
Satoru’s eyelids feel heavy, and his eyes burn as if a thousand needles scrape with each attempt to blink. Well, that checks out.
The hand returns to his cheek, its touch careful—but Satoru flinches anyway. It’s not his first rodeo; paramedics do not touch you like that.
“Hey, I’m sorry, I won’t hurt you,” the voice assures, velvety and pouring down like a rich, tangy wine.
Um.
What the fuck is that metaphor?
Anyway. Satoru steels his resolve and pries his eyes open.
Above him—right over his head, literally caging him between his hands and looming over him—is a man. A very handsome, muscular, straight-out-of-fantasy-anime-porn type of man. A perfect blend of a defined jaw, eyes so dark they gleam purple, raven-black hair, sharp cheekbones, narrow eyebrows…
“AAAARGH!”
Satoru punches the man in that pretty face.
The very real, not-2D-anime-porn man falls from the bed with a loud thud and a groan.
Not that Satoru can spare him a care.
What the hell!?
Scrambling up the bed, Satoru tries to control his breathing. Thoughts race through his head, one crazier than the other.
He’s not in a hospital. He’s not dead. But what if he is? The room around him looks like some medieval LARPing quarters—all wood and candles and even fucking furs on the floor.
“Ouch. But maybe I deserve that,” the man says, still plastered on the floor and nursing his cheek.
Carefully, Satoru glances down at him. As Satoru shifts, pain spikes all the way through his spine. Something wet and sticky is between his ass cheeks, as if he forgot to clean up lube after a…
Oh no.
Eyes wide, Satoru slowly turns his gaze down to his own body. Aside from the sheets covering his crotch, he’s stark naked.
Bruised. Bitten. Everywhere.
Abs, nipples, pecs—not a single area left unmarked.
Like the way webtoon artists draw their omegas after they’re totally wrecked by alphas in ruts. No human being ever has sex like that. Probably. Could someone realistically leave that many marks on a body? And is he skinnier?
Thoughts loosening—as well as his screws—Satoru peeks under the covers. Thank god. His cock is okay: pinkish and huge, just like he remembers. That’s good. But aside from that… Heh. How does anyone leave that many marks on the insides of the thighs? And, ew, so sticky—did someone throw a bucket of cum down there?
“Um, yeah, I got a bit carried away,” the man admits, his gaze also glued to the mess between Satoru’s legs. Rubbing his nape, long dark hair spilling over his broad—unmarked, mind you—chest, he smiles bashfully.
Suddenly feeling violated beyond reasonable measure, Satoru covers himself up and glares.
“Carried away!? I look like I was gang-banged by twenty dudes!” Satoru hollers—though his throat is so sore it comes out as a raspy, broken recording.
The man frowns.
“Gang-banged?” he repeats, honestly having the gall to sound confused.
Clearing his throat, Satoru is about to go into another yelling fit, but one last dying brain cell stops him.
He looks around once more.
The furs. The candles. The wooden furniture. A parchment on the table and an ink and a quill by it. The smell of cum, yes, but also of some flowery oils, leather, and something Satoru can’t recognize.
And in the center of it all—this person.
The man with long dark hair and the physique of a heavyweight boxing champion, but somehow still with defined muscles. Like, really, those are some wonderful pecs—very thought-provoking. Staring at those huge, manly tits, Satoru bites his lip to stop a dumb, lopsided smile from spreading over his face.
He can see. Everything. He literally can see, and he doesn’t want to dig out his eyeballs. It doesn’t hurt to gawk at those pecs, and all the colors are correct in the way his brain probably barely remembers how to process. The candles are yellow, this guy’s hair is black, and it doesn’t hurt to check out his abs with unblinking eyes.
There is one slim chance that it really happened. Absolutely mental idea, but he read about it so many times. It’s such a major fucking premise, maybe it has a precedent?
The linen between his fingers feels as real as the phone he had in his hands before waking up here.
And… well…
“Remind me your name?” Satoru asks, urgent. He’s so giddy he might self-combust.
The man arches an eyebrow. He chuckles. “You don’t remember?”
Satoru rolls his eyes. “You fucked me silly, oh mighty stallion. Now tell me your name.”
It’s crucial. Of paramount importance.
Shoulders shaking in silent laughter, the man gets up from the floor and returns to the bedside. One hand on the wall for support, he leans in and narrows his eyes. His long hair tickles Satoru’s naked shoulder. It feels real.
“It’s Geto, love,” the man murmurs.
So close, Satoru suddenly feels very, very small under that cold, dark gaze. And also he feels blood rushing down to his groin.
As in that Geto, right? He couldn’t be any other, fucking look at him.
Quick.
Satoru has two options now:
1. Consider it all a dream, a limbo, the last seven minutes of his brain conjuring a perfect fantasy, doesn’t matter—he can do whatever here. He probably died anyway and the headshot was well-aimed.
2. Consider it all real—some isekai and/or transmigration thing—and plot his survival in the new world based on all the tropes he knows.
The wonderful, beautiful thing about both options is that neither prevents him from spreading his legs.
Finally. Sex! With a real cock! Or as real as it can be. Whatever.
If he somehow becomes a nameless character that exists for the duration of one smut chapter solely for the purpose of getting banged by the hottest protagonist ever—as in Suguru Geto—then maybe it’s heaven. Not isekai and/or transmigration. Just, like, genuine heaven.
If it is indeed isekai and/or transmigration, then he has literally no stakes in the story. No villain to fight, no protagonist thighs to cling to (though those are some good thighs), no plots to avoid. He can, simply and earnestly, just fuck around and find out.
“Geto,” Satoru echoes, licking his lips. “Say, Geto—do you have some more in you? I feel—” Satoru raises his head, closing the distance so only a narrow space remains between their lips “—restless.”
God bless smut chapters with no plot.
Snorting, Geto grabs Satoru’s chin and shoves his tongue into his mouth with little to no prelude.
Wow.
Satoru is no virgin, but he’s never been particularly blown away by his one-night stands. The biggest reason he succumbs to buying some expensive toys is that the majority of men are a disappointment. The whole ordeal of finding someone to sleep with takes more energy than the achieved gratification is worth. Small dicks, crooked dicks, terrible technique, absolute selfishness in bed, pistoning like a dog with no rhythm—Satoru suffered through it all. Half-blind, mind you.
So maybe there is a god. Some pervert, as it seems, but a god nonetheless.
Only that could explain how those fingers inside his hole manage to massage his prostate so fucking well.
Geto’s hands are large, calloused, and his digits are thick but neat and nicely shaped. Mesmerized, Satoru watches them plunge into his hole, find his prostate, press and play with it—rub it, then thrust into it. With his ass up in the air and all his weight on his shoulder blades, Satoru thanks the pervert god that this new body is flexible enough to allow him the view.
His cock hangs over his stomach, rock hard and pulsating, pre-cum smudging over his abs. And damn it—he’s never gotten to fully see himself when he grew up, but this body must be his own or very close to it because he is hot. Those white pubes look really fucking cute; all his body hair is white and feathery light, perfect smut material.
With a well-placed thrust, Geto interrupts Satoru’s train of self-praising thoughts and makes him moan. Eyes tightly closed, Satoru feels a tremble run through his body.
“You seem distracted,” Geto says, bored and idle.
So that’s what it sounds like. Well. Okay. Valid. Satoru feels his dick twitch.
“Work harder, then,” Satoru breathes out the taunt. He has always dreamed of saying it. If he could, he would squeal from excitement.
The words are magic—Geto adds a third finger and shoves them inside with perfect precision. Gulping air, Satoru arches his back, mouth open on a silent scream.
Wow.
Wow!
The stretch is perfect, the speed is exactly right, the angle is godly. Coupled with who is abusing his prostate so wonderfully… Satoru shamelessly moans like a bitch in heat.
“I’m gonna—ah, fuck!—cum, really-really gonna cum now!” He mutters or screams—who can tell. Each thrust brings him closer to the edge.
“Are you a foreigner?” Though the question is asked just as lazily as before, the hand working Satoru into oblivion doesn’t falter for a moment.
Feeling tears stream down his cheeks and heat pool in his gut, Satoru has exactly zero coherent fucks to give about what that question could mean and where it comes from.
“Who—god-fucking-dammit!—cares,” he babbles, gripping the sheets. “Don’t you dare stop!”
There is a chuckle—the annoying dark chuckle of every damn top out there. But combined with the onslaught of sensations—thick fingers stretching his hole, milking him dry, the nerves in his body tight like a string, the constant thrum of his heart, the look in those dark purple eyes he barely manages to see through the veil of tears—combined with it all… Satoru throws his head back, arches his spine, and comes.
He comes so intensely he feels his own cum land on his face—cheeks, nose, then lower, down his chest. Shaking, convulsing, unable to think, Satoru slumps like a rag doll. Those sturdy hands catch him—one still slick with oil. They hold his waist, thumbs rubbing circles as if to soothe.
“What the fuck?” Satoru mumbles. He can barely move, the force of the orgasm still spasming through his body.
Geto clutches Satoru’s sides.
“Glad I could help.” He plants a chaste kiss on the top of Satoru’s knee and gets up.
Naked, huge, glistening with sweat, a web of dark locks sticking to his back, that damn beautiful ass—Satoru has the most delicious view. No one ever looks like that in real life. Those well-sculpted biceps, perfectly veiny forearms, muscular shoulder blades, defined waist, proportionally thick thighs… Oh, what a man. What a specimen.
Delightfully watching that ass jiggle with every step, Satoru suddenly realizes the terror of where those steps lead: to the heap of clothes on the floor. For fuck’s sake, there’s even an honest-to-god sword there. Not important.
Getting up on his elbows, Satoru asks, “What are you doing?”
Geto raises his eyebrows as he glances at him over his shoulder. “Getting dressed.”
All units, emergency. Satoru sits up in a second and almost rips a lock of hair out of his head in haste. Who needs that much hair!?
“I see that, but why?” he asks—calmly. Satoru is very calm, poised and collected. That’s why he rubs the cum off his face until his cheeks burn.
Laughing as if there is a joke, Geto nods to the window. “Because of sunrise. I must ride to Stormlands without delays.”
What fucking Stormlands!? Who riles a person up like that and then leaves? While still hard!?
“No.” Satoru stands up.
Though his legs are shaky, his resolve is unmovable.
He comes up behind Geto—who is taller than him—what the fuck? no one is taller than Satoru since he hit twenty-one years of listless age—
Anyway.
Satoru hugs that huge torso from behind and lowers his forehead to Geto’s nape.
No. But. What the hell is that height difference!?
Irritated by everything—especially by suddenly becoming a fucking munchkin—Satoru tightens his hold.
“You don’t get to ravish me so and leave with the first ray of sun. Have you no shame?”
Despite his turmoil, Satoru is pretty proud of his flowery speech. Those millions of read words finally pay off. Not that it matters—the worldbuilding and setting of The Venerable One Has Found His Way are scarcely an example of epic fantasy sophistication. It’s littered with modern words, some slang, and the character's speech only gets all medieval-like when the author remembers it. God, this book is terrible, huh? Satoru has no taste.
Spiraling in his thoughts, as he always does, Satoru hugs Geto tighter. He does have pretty good taste in men for an almost blind guy, though.
His clasped hands are covered by Geto’s larger, warmer palm.
“What are you saying…?” Geto falls silent.
Oh, of course. Geto’s paramours rarely have names; only the first few get the honor.
And he has the nerve to question the fact that Satoru forgets his. Truly, an insufferable protagonist. Poor Satoru—just a wanton plot device, an unnamed, insignificant sex tool.
“Satoru,” he says. “My name is Satoru, if it pleases you,” he murmurs into the skin.
Granted, he makes himself sound very pitiful, but that huge insufferable protagonist cock is on the line.
A weapon.
Satoru would never put something like that up his ass in reality. But here? He wakes up in such a sorry state and still gets the best fingering with mild struggle. Taking that weapon probably hurts in any case, but all evidence shows that this body of his has already passed the trial.
Fuck, spiraling again.
However, despite Satoru’s cock-lusting detours, Geto seems to take his sweet time replying, too…
But why?
“Satoru…” Geto finally whispers. He clutches Satoru’s hands in his palm.
Satoru can feel Geto’s back getting tenser, can feel the slight tremble in Geto’s hold. An unexplainable solemnity spills through Geto’s actions.
Slowly, Geto tries to turn around, though Satoru’s death grip is an inconvenience. Realizing the intention, Satoru loosens his hold but does not fully let go. He will never let go of the chance to get laid with the hottest chunk of meat ever.
Those perfect, manly tits are right in front of him. Just one little move and Satoru can bury his face between them. Ugh, pervert god, help him. Satoru gulps down the very little saliva his body manages to produce and forces himself to look up.
Dark eyes meet his. A deep black-to-purple shade—two precious amethysts staring at him. That’s how they’re described in the novel and, damn, it’s on point. Tilting his head, Satoru curiously raises his hand to trace Geto’s temple with his fingertips.
Fascinating.
Here, in the flesh, stand the words he used to read himself to sleep with, imagined countless times, dreamed of, and thought of when the nights got too loud. In this one stalemate of a moment—once the adrenaline rush from… everything dulls down—Satoru blinks his eyes open and sees.
Properly.
The way his sight worked when he was still young, and the colors didn’t hurt, and he loved watching pretty people smile at him.
Geto is so damn pretty. Handsome. Beautiful. All the right tones and proportions—a face Satoru would’ve probably never let go from his field of vision back when he still had it.
Exploring, Satoru trails over the shape of Geto’s jaw, a ghost of a touch. He traces his lip—the one he himself bit bloody in a raging kiss—because Geto kisses like he wants to devour you whole, and Satoru can’t simply take it without biting back.
As Satoru is about to take away his hand, Geto grabs his wrist. He brings it back to his face and nuzzles into Satoru’s palm.
“You can touch more. I know it’s easier for you,” Geto murmurs.
He kisses Satoru’s pinky.
How cute.
“My eyes don’t hurt now, so I can both touch and look,” Satoru chuckles, slipping into a conversation that—and he realizes it too late—he probably shouldn’t be having.
“Mhm,” Geto smiles. “Has it been like that for long?”
Geto’s lips press against the middle phalanx of Satoru’s ring finger.
Adorable.
“Since I woke up. You’re the prettiest view one could see first thing in the morning.” Satoru winks.
Deep down, he somehow feels that this is both a very wrong and very right conversation. But he can’t delve much into it since those lips are now kissing up his middle finger.
“Oh? I almost forgot the last time I heard something like that.” Geto kisses the pad of the index finger. “You’re right—I shouldn’t leave you, Satoru.” His voice deepens. “I shall take responsibility.”
Huh? Satoru frowns.
Umm, truly—no need for responsibility? Just one nice case of marathon sex would suffice. For real. He’s not that clingy.
“You’re mine now, Satoru.” Geto twists the wrist so he can bite into Satoru’s thumb.
He bites hard.
It really fucking hurts.
What in the goddamn cliché is that?
“Umm, Geto, could you ple— Ouch!”
Those fucking sharp canines. One punctures the skin, drawing blood.
“You dog!” Satoru tries to pry away his hand, but it only hurts more—Geto keeps his jaws clamped tight.
A wet, warm tongue licks the wound, and Satoru stills. Damn it, that’s hot. Geto circles the finger with the tip of his tongue, glancing down at Satoru with… are those the inglorious “dark eyes” as in “his eyes darkened”? In any case, Satoru bites his lower lip and forgets to blink.
Dazed, Satoru watches Geto take the thumb deeper into his mouth. When he lightly sucks on it—
“Ngh.”
It hurts, and it doesn’t. It’s so intimate, yet so vulgar. In short, Satoru whimpers—pathetic and needy. It feels good.
There’s no force behind Geto’s hold anymore; Satoru himself chooses to stay like this a bit longer. Tentatively, he tugs his thumb free; it catches Geto’s lower lip, and Satoru is enthralled by the plush satin under his pad. Wet and bloody, he paints a crimson line over it—over his own bite splitting Geto’s lip—their blood mixing as he traces the remnants to the corner of Geto’s mouth.
His heart thrums so loudly he feels it pulsing in his temples. Still, Satoru can’t move away. The most he can afford to do is look up. Geto’s pupils are dilated, thin circles of purple all but swallowed. If the eyes are windows to the soul, then, so close, Satoru can only see his own murky frame reflecting in the blackness of Geto’s gaze. And with those eyes watching him like this…
Satoru’s insides do a thing.
Geto looks at him with hope.
As if Satoru is some miracle—something good, someone who matters. As if Satoru is worth it. As if Satoru can be important enough, and, maybe…
Maybe there is none of that. Only delusions in Satoru’s sick imagination, but… nothing made sense from the moment he woke up, so what is another peculiarity?
Gently, Geto kisses the pad of Satoru’s thumb and smiles at him, eyes softening even more, overflowing with—
What is Satoru even thinking!?
“Wherever I go, you follow,” Geto says, almost reverently. “Wherever you go, I follow. You are mine, Satoru. The realms were to collapse, and you were to stay by my side, always and forever.”
The fuck!?
Even if Satoru wants to think over that fuckass, cheesy vow from some dark romance, Geto leans down and catches Satoru’s lips in a kiss, effectively rendering all attempts null.
Something is wrong. The way Satoru can’t make his brain work is wrong. Three shots of vodka can’t make him this confused—and he’s a lightweight—but some head-spinning, nicely paced, tasty kiss can?
Truly, such a good kiss. Geto is very skilled with his tongue, licking into Satoru’s mouth with a sense of propriety that makes Satoru weak in the knees.
Inside his head, bliss reigns—tangy sweetness envelops his reason. Thoughts hazy, mind in a fog, lost in a high that is both worse and better than all the drugs he has ever tried. The tongue wreaking havoc in his mouth is a grounding, welcome anchor. So Satoru opens his jaws wider and reciprocates with everything he has.
So warm, so wet, so good. How nice it is—to have another beating heart under his palm.
Into the kiss, Geto whispers, “I’m going to chain you if you try to leave. No more of this.”
Wait. Abort.
The word drags back all the lost rationale—like jumping into a freezing pool after boiling in the steam of a sauna.
Satoru pulls away, frowning.
That, ahem, kink is never, not once, mentioned in all of the free 143 chapters of The Venerable One Has Found His Way. With that genre and those story tags, readers would rise in revolt if Geto were associated with anything but free-spirited fucking around. None of his paramours are supposed to matter—certainly not up to a possessive declaration like this. Who would read that?
The gist of things is this: Geto fucks his paramours every other five to ten chapters; it never influences the story; only the first three love interests get names; all others are written namelessly; and he simply leaves them to go on with the main plot. They never resurface again. How could they? The chapters are basically sex bait.
That is the only reason Satoru threw a hissy fit. He knows once Geto leaves the confinement of the smut chapter, Satoru will never see him again. But smut chapters never influence the plot, so as long as it’s one continuous event—even if Geto is rushing to his damn Stormlands—his delay due to fucking Satoru some more will be overlooked.
What fucking chaining up!?